


My Feet Will Always Land

by theshipsfirstmate



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Addiction, F/M, season 4 spec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4906276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipsfirstmate/pseuds/theshipsfirstmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurel-centric season 4 spec. Mentions of Merlance, LaurelxCisco, Olicity, and Laurel/Felicity friendship. Addiction themes.</p><p>"She often expects the darkness in her past to consume her, to overtake her like the quicksand that swallowed up her sister, her first love, her second love. She expects to be pulled under completely. But the feeling never comes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Feet Will Always Land

_A/N: Laurel Lance-centric season 4 spec. Mentions of Merlance, BlackVibe, Olicity, and Laurel/Felicity friendship. Addiction themes. Credit to recent photos from set for kick-starting the LL muse.  
_

_Title from[“Mother & Father”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-Eobk_sfIc) by Broods. I won’t embarrass myself further with how long I spent looking up Laurel Lance songs._

**My Feet Will Always Land**

She expects it when they first start venturing out as a team of three. She expects it to be harder without Oliver, and it is, but it’s never too hard. Even when they come out worse for the wear, even when she finds herself needing an assist from John, even when Thea keeps slipping up and asking if she wants to grab a drink after a long night. She expects it to be too much sometimes. But the feeling never comes.

She expects it when Oliver’s sister makes an off-hand comment one night as they’re suiting up. “Would you ever have believed this three years ago?” She doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she stopped playing make-believe with the future the second the phone rang with the news that the Queen’s Gambit was at the bottom of the ocean. She often expects the darkness in her past to consume her, to overtake her like the quicksand that swallowed up her sister, her first love, her second love. She expects to be pulled under completely. But the feeling never comes.

She expects it when nights in black leather make her think of Sara, when she passes by a reflective surface and still sees a ghost. But thoughts of her sister only make her stronger these days, only reinforce the steel in her spine, the weight behind her fists. She expects to fail at some point, to question whether or not she’s worthy of the mantle. But the feeling never comes.

She expects it when they return to the team, when Oliver’s back under The Hood and Felicity’s back in front of the computers. She expects, at the very least, a difficult cooling off period. But he’s truly something else in the new suit, someone else. She doesn’t have to remind him that she’s part of the team, she has to remind herself of a time when he wasn’t. He’s powerful as ever, but cooperative in a way he’s never been, she can tell for sure by Digg’s reactions. She expects to be overshadowed by his heroics. But the feeling never comes.

She expects it when Cisco comes to town and knocks on her door one night, a few hours after the team had packed it in.

“I just…I couldn’t let it go. I’m sorry, you have to watch at least the first episode.” He’s still on about a TV show he had asked her about earlier and she tries not to notice how adorable he is, how his eyes light up when he pulls a bottle from behind his back.  “I brought wine.”

She tries not to let her smile flicker. “I don’t drink.”

“…for your neighbors,” he covers sheepishly, ducking down to place the bottle in front of the door across the hall. “I brought wine for your neighbors.”

He sees through every evasive maneuver she tries, he’s persistent, adorably so. So finally, she just tells him to come in, and then, inexplicably, she tells him why she doesn’t drink.

She expects the shame to rouge her cheeks, to feel the same sense of embarrassment that she uses an excuse to avoid first dates – or any dates, really. But he just listens and lets her talk, he even holds her hand at one point. She actually lets it linger, actually relishes the way his fingers twist around hers. She expects to feel the polarity push at some point, the need to pull back in the name of self-preservation. But the feeling never comes.

She expects it when Damien Dahrk firebombs the rebuilt CNRI building, seemingly for no other reason than to make them run into a flaming maze of shrapnel and memories. Oliver ends up in the hospital, and so the rest of them do too. Thea dozes in the waiting room, but Laurel goes almost catatonic in the hard plastic chair and she’s never been more grateful for John than when he just sits, silent and steady beside her.

Felicity emerges after a few hours, eyes stained red, makeup smudged away. She takes the seat on Laurel’s other side and lets out a long, shaky breath.

“Will you tell me something about him?” Laurel wonders, for one brief second, if there’s possibly anything she could tell her about Oliver that she doesn’t already know by now. Her breath catches sharply in her throat when she realizes what Felicity meant.

She expects telling her about Tommy’s eyes will affect how the other woman sees her, expects telling her about the songs that he loved might invite radio silence. She expects it to hurt too much, sharing even the smallest bits of him. She expects it to shut her down. But the feeling never comes.

* * *

She doesn’t expect it the night of the gala, yet she immediately knows she should have. Because as soon as she steps into the banquet hall, she realizes she’s seen this setup before. The lavish hall, the crowd of donors with checkbooks in their lapel pockets, everything down to the “Queen for Mayor” posters. She’s had this exact vision before, a decade ago, and even though it was just a dream then, the deja vu slams her sideways.

It doesn’t matter that it’s not her in the blue dress standing next to Oliver in a tux, that it’s not her on his arms, with his ring on her finger. It’s just this memory: who’s here and who’s not, who she was and who she is and who she could have been. It’s that feeling that pushes and pulls at her, all the way to the bar. She settles herself near the rubber servers mat, hoping that the bustle of activity at the absolute worst part of a bartop to stand will jostle her out of whatever self-destructive tractor beam is keeping her here. Her shoulders ache with the effort to not reach up and signal the bartender, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a brief second, wishing for will power.

The feeling never comes. But Felicity does, walking the full length of the bar to slide in beside her with a little sigh. She’s not sure she can meet the other woman’s eyes, afraid that any glimpse of pity in them might bring the whole thing down around her.

“I need some air and Oliver’s elbow-deep with donors,” Felicity says, almost conspiratorially. “Wanna step outside with me real quick?”

Laurel takes one deep breath and forces herself to look up, because she is nothing if not moving forward. The sigh of relief when she glimpses nothing but sincerity rattles her bones but doesn’t seem to faze Felicity at all.

“Absolutely.”

They make their way to the balcony and takes deep breaths of the cooling night air, leaning against the balcony railing to survey the city in a way feels familiar.

“I can’t believe he’s really going to run,” the other woman marvels softly after a moment. “Did you ever think he’d…?

“Yes,” Laurel hates herself just a little when she chokes on the interrupting syllable and Felicity goes quieter than either of them are comfortable with. The awkwardness forces unnecessary words from her mouth. “I’m really happy for you guys, by the way.”

“Laurel, I don’t want you to be happy for us,” Felicity starts, flailing her arms a little when she speaks, like she does sometimes when she’s processing faster internally.. “It means a lot that you are, I just…”

She stills, finally, and looks over, sincere as anything on a sigh.

“We don’t need you to be happy for us. We just need you to be happy.”

Laurel expects to eventually stop feeling like part of something, expects a violent break or a mournful fade-out, expects this new team to stop surrounding her like a family. But the feeling never comes.


End file.
